


don't worry (you will)

by NekoAisu



Series: posthumous [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Post-Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 14:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/NekoAisu
Summary: “This isn’t about your lack of a sex life, Sol. This is about the fact that you have no conscience.”





	don't worry (you will)

**Author's Note:**

> Or wherein z'ahir can’t get his shit together but neither can fahmi or melianthus. it’s a right mess, but at least only one(?) of them is drunk

“I still can’t see why there’s anything wrong with getting frisky with the Imperial Prince.”

Fahmi breathes deeply, tossing the disbelief and (Halone forbid)  _ fury _ that came with the statement. He downs half his ale before asking, “Y’d bed th’ same man who nearly cleaved me in two, Ahir? Leviathan’s watery gullet I’ll  _ disown _ you.” His ears flatten to his head at the memory, scar tissue bisecting his torso an all-too-obvious reminder of that particular disaster.

The man in question snorts a laugh, round-framed spectacles slipping down his nose, and replies, “He’s hot, he’s tall, and he can crush me with his thighs. I can see no better, conceivable way to go.” He pops a couple chunks of bread into his mouth, looking for all the world not the least bit contrite. “I mean, it’s not like _you _would go after him. We had that issue with Estinien and your ridiculous, selfless tendencies already. You do for the emotionally tortured types, not the ones that would delight in torturing you.”

“You’re missin’ the point,” Melianthus cuts in, a new round of drinks in hand, and Fahmi feels distinctly  _ short  _ (which isn’t all too strange─it’s more common than not─but it still rankles whenever the Highlander looks down her nose at him). “This isn’t about your lack of a sex life, Sol. This is about the fact that you have no conscience.”

Fahmi downs the rest of his drink and pulls over one of the full flagons, nursing his way through it while Melianthus rails good-naturedly on his partner in anti-eikon crime. It’s not too strange an occurrence, them drinking together after pulling off some feat or another. Melianthus never minds his pining after one  _ frustratingly  _ handsome dragoon and knows just the right things to say to keep Z’ahir from getting murdered because of his casanova tendencies. She’s solid, unyielding, and plenty strong enough to haul them both to an inn room when they stink of ale and can’t see straight. 

He’s swiped the dregs of Z’ahir’s mug before he slips back into their conversation. “I mean, yeah, Zenos ‘s  _ pretty…  _ but tha’s really ‘is only redeeming quality. Y’need to check y’r type and see where it stopped bein’  _ tall, dark, n’ handsome  _ and became  _ literally able and willin’ t’ murder me.” _

“Your type is anyone who smiles in your direction,” Melianthus points out with a lopsided simper. “So you settling down with that Raen of yours was a surprise. Still is, if I’m bein’ honest.” She eyes the slowly growing flush to Fahmi’s cheeks as if studying some new and interesting beast. When combined with a set of two, three… five empty mugs sitting before him in a line, it morphs from amusing to vaguely worrying. Zahir has none of the delicacy required to not comment on Fahmi’s apparent want (and very possible need) to get drunk.

“I thought you made an oath to never drink again after─”

Fahmi snatches Melianthus’s brew and chugs the third that was left before calling for three more, effectively cutting both his companions off with a stern and moderately panicked reminder that, “We agreed never to speak of that.”

“Yeah, but─”

“Z’ahir Solus Afif, if you utter so much as one more word I will skin you alive and deliver what remains to the Emperor as a peace offering,” he warns. Coupled with the sharpest glare he can muster while arguably inebriated, it’s a rather empty threat. 

Z’ahir pushes his hair back where it had begun to slip into his face, eyes bright where they stare from above wrought metal frames, and teases, “Sounds  _ lovely.” _

Fahmi groans and all but slams his head down on the sticky surface of the bar, mumbling, “Why’re y’like this?”

“Because you love me, dear brother, and no number of inadvisable comments will change that. You let me get away with it.” He laughs, snagging the refills before Fahmi can make off with them and learn how it feels to make out with a door frame. Melianthus flags down the barkeep for some water in short order. “We are cutting you off.”

“I hate y’all.”

Melianthus barks a laugh. “That’s a new conjunction ‘round these parts. Have some water and stop pining. We only have room for  _ one  _ botanist and Kusaki is more than enough.” She pats Fahmi on the back a little too hard and he flinches. Her smile falls. “Sorry about that. I forget, sometimes.”

He gives her a tired smile, a flush high on his cheeks from the alcohol, and promptly knocks out on the bar counter. 

Z’ahir sighs. “He’s still not over it. I didn’t… I  _ haven’t  _ helped enough. He flinches and keeps hiding his hands in his robes. It feels like any time there is even the barest touch of magic ready to be let out, he falters. It feels like she broke him.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, dislodging his glasses, and stares at his drink. “We are sitting here. Drinking some piss-stinking excuse for alcohol. And I have not even been able to get him to  _ heal  _ anything. It’s been months and he refuses to do something so instinctual as healing.”

“Give him time,” Melianthus advises. “Celio needed it, too.” 

They share a loaded look. Celio had been… a time. He was a good kid and is a better one, now, but fifty years of solitude in a forest had done him no favors. Fahmi was a completely different situation, but the damage is similar. For Celio, he’d become feral and half mad with loneliness. 

Fahmi had been broken piece by piece and put together to cover his past. He was by no means lonely, decorated and coveted as he had been in Doma, but he was damaged by too much attention. Too much criticism. Strict rations, ratios, behaviors. Sometimes, he wakes up and forgets that it’s not just a dream. That the freedom to wear what he pleases and leave inn rooms without asking permission is his. 

He still falls into the patterns of self management and neglect. 

Melianthus tells him he’s doing well even when he can’t quite grasp why he should not start sentences with “this one” and, rather, “I”. He still waits for the other shoe to drop, turns to stone as if breathing will gain him a punishment, and Melianthus waits. Z’ahir has none such patience. 

“We do not have any, Melianthus.”

“Make some,” she says with a dismissive wave. “You needed some. He made some.  _ He  _ needs some now. You best do the same.”

Z’ahir reaches up to his jaw and rubs at it, roughened patches of scar tissue and callusing an inescapable reminder of what she means. “I want to. I am not what he needs, though. Not as patient.”

She dumps a pile of Gil on the counter and stands, gesturing for him to grab Fahmi so they can move him up the stairs to his inn room. “Don’t sell yourself short, kid. Where’d that fire from the bloodsands go?”

“It died with Keimei.”

“Understandable,” she replies. “He was an entire rotting arse.”

Z’ahir snorts. “Yeah. He was.”

They tuck Fahmi into bed, Z’ahir pulling off the many layers of his armor, leathers, and accessories. Melianthus snuffs the candle on the way out. They leave him to sleep. Heading to his own room, Z’ahir wishes he was afraid of the dark as he was as a kit. Some measure of terror could do him good, he thinks, when the fear of fighting for his life has faded and left him tired. He pulls off his gear and all but collapses into bed. He allows magic to flow from his fingers, a tiny gust snatching the flame from atop his last lit candle and putting it out. 

He lays in the darkness and waits for sleep to come. 

It does not. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments, kudos, and concrit are all greatly encouraged and appreciated!
> 
> hmu on:  
tunglr | https://house-nikephoros.tumblr.com/  
twitter | https://twitter.com/FlamingAceKiri  
discord | https://discord.gg/NCdmRHf


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